


are you hoping for a miracle?

by maximoffs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoffs/pseuds/maximoffs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-series, stannis baratheon has won the iron throne</p>
            </blockquote>





	are you hoping for a miracle?

After the war, the bodies collect. They float down the river and pile up against the city walls. They get stuck in canals -- the multitude of them blocks the passage of ships -- an ironic kind of haunting for the former admiral. Stannis burns what he can, of course, but there are too many. Nobles and commoners alike. False heroes, false kings, false friends. Death is the great equalizer, Davos has heard before. So it is.

On the Iron Throne, the man who finally got what he wanted is still unhappy. His jaw is still set, he still grinds his teeth at night. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. Sometimes Davos wants to shake him, yell what is it you want until his throat is sore, but that isn't how you treat a king. You tell him what he wants to hear, Davos knows, except he has no idea what Stannis wants to hear. So he goes about business as usual. He appoints new knights and lords and a small council they can trust. He watches Devan grow. He sends letters home, filled with love and hope and white lies. "Everything has paid off," they say. "I love you so much. I will send for you."

One night, it is Stannis who sends for him. 

He is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the bed, reading what looks like old letters, a glass of something balanced on his knee. It would be uncharacteristic if he didn't look uncomfortable; he looks uncomfortable no matter what he does, Davos notes. It makes his heart ache, but he doesn't say anything.

"Davos," Stannis says unceremoniously, barely glancing up at him. 

"Your Grace."

A moment goes by where he thinks that Stannis has already forgotten about him, as distracted as he is. He clears his throat, and Stannis actually looks up.

"Well. Sit," he says, motioning vaguely to the ground next to him. 

Davos waits a beat and obeys. It is his duty, he knows, to follow orders, but he thinks that maybe -- that probably -- even if the positions of power were equal (not reversed, he could never think reversed, he couldn't), he would still obey. He would do whatever Stannis asked of him. Even if they were -- something else, something he can't name. Davos knows this in his heart.

He sits. He waits. It is like this. It has always been. 

"Would you like a drink," Stannis states blandly. It's not even a question. Davos gets that feeling again, the shaking and yelling feeling. He fucking yearns for it; all of his fingers -- the whole and the not -- they ache to clutch Stannis by the shoulders.

"You are king," he says slowly. "You are king. Finally. After all of this brutal, ongoing, bloodshed. The fighting and the dead and the fallen bodies. You are king and --"

"I am exhausted," Stannis interrupts.

The ache comes to a boiling point; Davos can feel it rising to his brain. " _And the rest of us aren't_?" he all but screams -- taking Stannis by surprise, it seems, by the way he jumps (just the tiniest bit); himself even moreso. It is not the first time he's disagreed with Stannis, but it is the first time that he's ever raised his voice. It frightens him. He is, after all, at the core, only a smuggler. 

Davos stands up. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, I -- should be leaving," he mumbles. 

Stannis says something. It sounds like "don't" but he can't be sure. He's too distracted by his own embarrassment, the war like a poison in his veins, spreading itself even now, even after they've won. It doesn't feel like victory. It feels rough and jagged and heavy, it feels like it doesn't even matter anymore. All those dead for what. His sons. The children. The months away from home, from warmth, from safety. All for what.

"Don't," Stannis says, more clearly this time, looking up at him expectantly. He looks away almost immediately, taking a sip of his drink. "Stay," he says to the floor.

Davos sits back down. He feels like a fucking idiot. He feels like a fucking idiot until Stannis sets his drink down, sets the letters in his hands aside, shifts closer. They make a point of not touching. Stannis breaks this rule, quietly and suddenly, without warning, when he rests his head on Davos' shoulder, simultaneously confusing and terrifying him. He holds his breath.

"I don't feel like king," Stannis says. He is looking straight ahead, as though this is totally normal. Davos is completely and utterly aware of his body; he tries to keep still. "I don't feel anything," Stannis says. He lifts his head and straightens up, as if nothing has just happened. 

"What do you want to feel?" Davos asks. It is a stupid question, but he's not sure how else to fill the silence. This is openness of another kind; this is not how they function. _How do we function_?, Davos thinks, half-knowing the answer. ( _Barely_.)

He feels Stannis shrug beside him. They're still not looking at one another -- until Stannis moves, and they are. He touches Davos' sleeve, his wrist -- so lightly it's barely a touch. He moves closer and looks at him until that shaking rage inside of Davos subsides and begins to turn into something else, something scarier, more fragile. Yes, he wants to say, me too, but the words don't make it out of his mouth, they get stuck somewhere, maybe in his ribcage or his collarbone or around his tongue, and then it's too late anyway, it's too late. Stannis kisses him -- is kissing him -- and he's kissing back, he's putting his arms around his neck and he's on his knees and he's pushing him back, spilling the remains of Stannis' drink, pushing him flat on his back, onto the letters, flat, pinning his wrists up against his head. 

"Do you feel like a king now?" Davos asks, tracing the curve of Stannis' jaw with his tongue.

"Less so," Stannis replies, but there's the trace of a smirk in it as Davos presses his mouth against his neck, feeling his pulse quicken under his lips. 

"How do you feel, then?" he asks, pulling away ever so slightly. Stannis wriggles a hand out of his grasp and uses it to touch Davos' face. 

"Better, I think," he says.

"You think?"

Stannis frowns and Davos feels something drop in the pit of his stomach, uncertainty creeping in. A flicker of a smile sends it directly away.

"I'll let you know. Kiss me again," he says.

Davos complies. Somehow, he realizes with full clarity, when Stannis is under him like this, and moments later when he is taking off his clothes, when he is making him scream -- this night and for nights and nights afterwards -- that this isn't just a method of coping.


End file.
